


Stories for Ghosts

by psychedelia



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Lives AU, Fix-It, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Spoilers, well. of sorts.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-11 12:28:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17447003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychedelia/pseuds/psychedelia
Summary: In the end, Arthur Morgan imagined it was less of a blessing to wake up to the morning sunrise, his eyes blinking away tears and grime and blood and regret and betrayal and every emotion on God’s green earth to watch the rays beat their way above the mountain horizon like a mocking modicum, than a curse. Each breath he took felt like his last, and in a way, he would have preferred it was. It would make things easier, to die here, to let himself face the sun and lay testament to the failures of Dutch van der Linde, to nourish the land he bled and killed and hunted on with his very bones etched into the mountain.Or; Arthur Morgan survives Roanoke Ridge... Barely. He's saved by Charles Smith, and over the course of them trying to escape, trying to piece their lives together from ruin, they find a connection neither has experienced before.





	1. Prologue

In the end, Arthur Morgan imagined it was less of a blessing to wake up to the morning sunrise, his eyes blinking away tears and grime and blood and regret and betrayal and every emotion on God’s green earth to watch the rays beat their way above the mountain horizon like a mocking modicum, than a curse. Each breath he took felt like his last, and in a way, he would have preferred it was. It would make things easier, to die here, to let himself face the sun and lay testament to the failures of Dutch van der Linde, to nourish the land he bled and killed and hunted on with his very bones etched into the mountain.

In the end, Arthur mused that the earth wasn’t ready for him yet, and cursed his own narcissism in ever letting him get it in his head that his death could be so poetic, so artistic, like one of them nice rounded out fairy tales that Jack had always wanted to relay the plots of. The earth wasn’t ready for him to expire, even though his hacking lungs and growing despair were begging for it. 

Even though he’d long ago accepted that he’d die, he would, and the world would be all the better off for it.

In the end, Arthur could only be grateful that he saw one more sunrise, one more spin of the earth, one more reminder that the world was moving on without him, would continue on as though he’d never existed. A ghost of a man, he’d once told Sadie.

He groaned into the soil, and felt his mind blacking out from even that extension of energy released, the air in his lungs leaking like a deflated balloon, his body so completely in pain he could almost hear his cells screaming red-hot in his ears.

It took what must be an hour to muster even the energy to pull himself up to his hands and knees, and the motion resulted in him coughing up a violent splatter of blood onto the snow-bleached grass below him. His fingers scrabbled for purchase on the rocks below him, the beds of his nails bleeding and jagged and a couple snagged with greasy blond hair that could only be Micah’s. 

If he got off this mountain, the first thing he’d do would be to scrub every inch of his body, every pore, every centimeter of his flesh to rid himself of the lingering presence that Micah Bell had on him. Maybe, just maybe, if he could remove every shred of that man from his being, he could get better, he could move on he could-- could--

Could what? 

Return home to a Dutch that abandoned him? He’d never had a home and if he did, it died when Dutch walked away. Maybe it died back in Blackwater, or before it or-- Maybe it’d never been. Maybe his home had always been Delusion and Lies and the serpent-tongue rhetoric that he’d been fed since he was a child.

And even if he could find his way back to civilization-- a word that more and more and more and more had started to breed hatred and fear and hopelessness in his soul-- what then? Die a sick man, poor on the streets? Become a thing of pity? Die claustrophobic and alone and without purpose? At least here, he had the sun and the earth beneath him, had the private hope that John got out alive, Tilly got out, Charles and the others got out alive, that they were safe and his confrontation with Micah wasn’t for naught.

Arthur’s hands slipped from the ground after a worrying amount of shaking in his arms and he fell back to the dirt, his body heavy as the steel that was slowly poisoning America. He tasted blood, blooming from some wound from somewhere. He felt more wound than human at this point. He didn’t know if it was new or old, and didn’t much care. Blood was blood was blood was blood; it was all the same.

Something… Something had given him another chance, and he was going to waste it, waste it with his  _ damned _ thinking, with his  _ damned _ thoughts, and he was going to die on this Mountain after all. He wouldn’t complain. He really wouldn’t.  _ Damn whatever kept me alive _ , he thought, and pressed his cheek firmer into the ground, trying to ignore the wheezing, dying breaths in his chest. Even without the sickness, the death sentence, the pathogen sitting in his lungs, he’d probably punctured a lung at this point, if his sides were anything to go off of. He wasn’t long for the world, and it kept him around just long enough to mock him, to rub it in, to give him one last final spit in the face. 

If nothing else, at least Arthur would die knowing he was a bad, bad man. Better than Micah, oh certainly, but a bad man nonetheless who was never suited for this world, was never ripe for these changing days of civilization. Even if the modern world was a savage, destructive, immoral place hellbent on destroying the lives of everyone in sight, even if Arthur Morgan had acted as its bogeyman, it’s sniper, it’s destruction, at the end of the day, that still made him a demon. 

The sun cresting over the horizon was blinding him, and his mind was going hazy. He could just pretend the sun rays were the Light that he’d heard people talking about, the final hoorah before the end. This was a decent enough grave, at least. A respectable grave for a man who had earned no respect in his death, for a man who, if his death were ever commented upon, would likely be with a celebration in the local newspapers. Dutch’s dog, put to rest.

Arthur sighed, letting out as much air as he could on the exhale. He ignored the blood rising to the back of his throat, wondered if maybe he could just drown in it. 

He closed his eyes, and willed himself to  _ sleep _ , and didn’t notice the approaching hoof-beats, the frantic calling, the thud of a man bigger than himself dropping to his knees beside his still body, an aborted half-cry of  _ “Arthur _ ” coming out in choked concern. Arthur didn’t notice, and perhaps it was for the best, because in his heart of heart’s, he’d never be able to stand the sight of tears falling unbidden down Charles Smith’s cheeks as he reached out to touch Arthur’s still shoulder.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't written serious fanfic in.... Wow, honestly, years. So I'd appreciate some comments/kudos of encouragement if this is something y'all want me to continue. I'd love to make this a longer, prosey thing. Characters/tags/warnings etc will be added as I move along the story. I'm still working out the details in my head. 
> 
> Anyways, you can reach me on tumblr-- [Sekwoja](https://sekwoja.tumblr.com/), and on twitter at [kristolev](https://twitter.com/kristolev). 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. whiskey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a party, some whiskey, a drawing, and in the end, a cough.

In a far away memory, safe-guarded and kept under lock and key except in the most vulnerable of moments, Charles Smith recalled a sketch, the charcoal thick-lined and embedded in the grain of the paper as though each stroke, each line, was committing a truth to the world, a permanence that most men couldn’t hope to create. 

He’d found it when they were still in Shady Belle, the night that Javier’s guitar plucked delicate, ecstatic notes over the algae of the swamps surrounding them, when the gang-- Still a Family, still together-- celebrated the safe return of young Jack Marston. Everyone drank, heavily, and it was the last moment Charles can recall seeing drink out and scattered about the camp and not feeling a pang of sadness, of worry, of despair.

Even Arthur drank. Maybe more than the others. Charles had often found himself watching Arthur, even when they weren’t riding together. Watching the ways his shoulders tensed and fell with each mission, watched the way his eyes shifted and pulled away under any scrutiny. He’d come to respect the man over the months, respect him more than the others, but lately-- what with Dutch and all them-- he’d grown infuriated by Arthur’s apparent lack of  _ choice _ , his inability to  _ think _ about what they were doing. 

But that night, that night those inkling thoughts of rage and worry and despair and fear were situated low, low down in the pith of his stomach, buried deep under a hearty, if not tasty, meal that Mr. Pearson had prepared for them all in celebration.

Instead, Charles had hung back, like normal, the smallest of smiles ticking his lips upward.  He’d never done well in social situations like this, but standing here, watching, taking it in… It was enough. Besides, from the look of things, he’d be the only one to remember anything other than young Jack come morning.

The journal was revealed to him when a drunken, topsy-turvy Arthur (always a dangerous combination in a man as big and broad and lethal as Arthur Morgan) stumbled over to him, clasping a hand on his shoulder with all the conviction that he normally lacked. 

It had startled Charles, who admittedly had gotten a little too engrossed in the slowly-fading timbres of Javier’s voice, the notes slowly losing their bolster, their gust, as the man slowly curled around the base of the instrument, falling asleep. Charles almost slapped the hand away on impulse, but a quick glance told him it was nothing to worry about, just a drunken--

“Arthur.” 

He looked good in equal measures as much as he stank of whiskey. A smile was loose on his lips and his eyes-- unshaded without a hat-- were soft and happy, the wrinkles around them crinkled in such a way that Charles couldn’t help but stare in confusion for a beat, another, before realizing that he’d never seen Arthur this  _ happy _ . 

And of course he would be. Riding out with his family, saving another family member, having Dutch be  _ level-headed _ \-- Charles still didn’t know everything about Arthur Morgan, but he’d known from the get-go that family and loyalty… They were two sides of the same coin for him.

“Charles… You ain’t ever join in on the-- on the-- festivities,” Arthur slurred, and as the hand came off his shoulder, Arthur slotted himself right next to Charles, leaning up against one of the wagons. Their shoulders bumped together, and with any other man, Charles might have tried to shimmy away, keep his personal space to himself. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t feel the urge with Arthur.

“Guess someone’s gotta keep watch.” He said, and Arthur scoffed, bumping his shoulder even harder. It made Charles smile, just a little half up-tick of his lips, and he offered, “Well, alright. Maybe someone’s gotta be sober enough to remember the festivities come morning.” 

“Jus’ an excuse… Jus’ an excuse.” Arthur mumbled. He was swaying perilously whenever he moved, and Charles wondered if he’d have to guide Arthur up the stairs inside the old plantation house himself. “Always remember-- I do! Look--” 

Charles had known of the journal beforehand. Of course he did-- everyone in camp knew about it and ribbed Arthur on it constantly, wondering just what sort of thoughts their blockheaded hitman could possibly have that was worth keeping. Either because of that or just some shy sense of privacy had clearly made him keep it private, because while Charles had  _ seen _ the leather-bound journal, he’d never looked inside. He always got the feeling that he’d break Arthur’s trust if he ever picked it up.

Arthur pulled the journal out of one of his pockets, his fingers clumsy. The nub of a tiny pencil smaller than his thumb fell into the dirt, and Charles bent to pick it up, the amusement in his lips quirking up a little more when he saw that Arthur had chewed the end of the wood, probably deep in thought. The mental image of Arthur laying in his cot, chewing on a pencil as he thought of how to write  _ I killed a man _ in a unique way made him laugh, a quick exhaled chuckle that forced its way out when he stood back up and offered the pencil back to Arthur.

Quietly, he made a mental note to buy Arthur more pencils whenever he went into town.

“Look. Always writin’ things down.” Arthur looked like he wanted to flip to a specific page, show him something in particular, but his shoulders hunched upwards for a moment, a tic that Charles had taken to translate to embarrassment, anxiety. Arthur might have portrayed himself as the big, dumb muscle of the camp, but Charles was no idiot himself; he knew half, if not more, of that thick headed skull was just Arthur putting on a show for the sake of the others and… Well, probably himself.

But Arthur’s peculiar language was rich, body language and all, and Charles knew that it was just the tip of the iceberg that he’d seen. He hesitated in taking the journal, but when Arthur’s shaking, drunken hands threatened to drop the whole thing in the dirt, Charles grabbed it, opening up to a page at random, squinting deep at the page, thankful that the embers of the party had given way to the slow-rise intake of the sunrise, allowing him to actually  _ see _ the page for what it was worth.

It was a sketch of Horseshoe Overlook, the lines hazy and loose and quick but  _ strong _ , a mastery of the pencil that clearly came from a keen eye for taking in his surroundings, digesting the nature that revealed itself to him. The sketch captured the half-assembled tents, the skinny but hopeful faces of the gang-- the  _ family _ , at the time-- and the small details reveled in the shrubbery, the greenery, the promise of  _ spring _ , of  _ renewal _ , of  _ growth _ . 

Charles reached out to brush his finger against the sketch, then thought better of it, not wanting to smudge what seemed to be Arthur’s memory. 

“This is good,” He murmured, and looked over to his right, watching Arthur pointedly look away, forgo eye contact and take another swig of that whiskey bottle.

“Didn’ mean for no compli-- Jus’ showin’ you that I got a memory too, Mr. Smith.” Arthur’s words, garbled as they were, almost had an embarrassed tinge of pink in their tone. Charles imagined if he could see Mr. Morgan’s cheeks right now, they’d be flushing. He didn’t know why that thought made him so giddy.

“No, it is good.” He could see where Arthur grew bored, and didn’t care, and what in the camp held greater importance to his mind’s eye-- Pearson’s supplies were blobs, and frankly, so was Strauss, but Dutch’s phonograph had clear, strict lines to put it down to memory, the horses faces in the hitching area lovingly rendered. He smiled at Taima, and wondered if it was just his imagination, or if she was drawn with a little more detail than most of them, bar Arthur’s new horse from the Addler ranch and The Count. “I kind of miss Horseshoe.”

“I miss a lotta places.” Arthur said, and held out his hand for the journal back, still looking away. Charles followed his gaze; he was looking at the rising sun, the drowsy, lazy morning rays of light bouncing off his eyes. It made him look like a ghost. 

Charles handed the journal back, and Arthur nearly dropped it again, trying to take a swig from the bottle of whiskey  _ and _ put the journal away all at once. Charles scoffed and first grabbed the journal before it could fall, and then pulling the whiskey bottle away from his lips, giving him a Broker-No-Arguments look. 

If Arthur Morgan was a lesser man, he might have whined. The ghost-spell broken, he looked at Charles, a frown tugging on his lips. 

“I think you’ve had enough, Arthur.” Charles said. He still had the journal, though, and didn’t trust Arthur not to drop it, so after a moment, he leaned forward, opening Arthur’s coat jacket and slipping the journal inside the inner pocket. Arthur’s breath was hot as he exhaled harshly-- Charles thought that maybe he’d come down with a flu recently-- the whiskey-smell of his breath sour but… Not unwelcome. It was just another reminder that Arthur was  _ alive _ , alive and well and very much here. 

This close to Arthur, Charles could almost see the freckles that dotted beneath the sunspots and grime of Arthur’s cheeks. He wondered what picture they’d make, connected. Charles swallowed, his hand lingering on Arthur’s breast pocket for a moment, before he leaned back, away from Arthur. He didn’t know what kind of spell Arthur had on him, if it were a spell, but he had always found the man spellbinding. 

The morning frogs from the swamp were beginning to croak their serenades, and down towards the beginning of the plantation, he heard one of the roosters crow to greet the morning sun’s sleepy warmth. A few of the horses huffed angrily at the rooster’s wake-up call, but settled down after a few more annoyed grunts. Charles hadn’t realized it, but the guitar had stopped during their conversation, and in this moment, he was starkly aware that everyone had gone to bed, or was close to it. It was just him and Arthur, sharing a drawing of a better time from a better world on a night that had luckily-- and they both knew it was luck that survived this night-- gone their way. 

Arthur leaned back with Charles, his mouth half-open and his drunken eyes swimming in some sort of half-thought. He pulled his bottom lip in and nodded, slowly, eyes drifting to the whiskey bottle in Charles’ hand and then back to Charles again. “Alrigh’ then. Maybe you’re right. Should pro’lly get to bed, Charles.” He pulled himself off the caravan, nearly tipping over to the ground below. Righting himself, he started to angle his way towards the big house, his eyes still drifting around Charles. Never on his eyes. Never to his eyes. But everywhere else, Arthur seemed to scour, and if Charles weren’t so shaken himself, he might wonder what fascination Arthur had with him. “Night.”

“...Goodnight, Arthur.” Charles repeated, and as Arthur walked away, Charles took his first swig of alcohol that night, relishing in the burning of his mouth. He thought about Arthur nursing this bottle all night long, his hands cupped around the body, singing and mumbling and  _ happy _ , and Charles took another drink.

 

\--

 

The Arthur Morgan dying on a mountain in a fit of undignified coughing and blood-splattered flesh was not the man Charles spent a night talking to in Shady Belle. 

Charles hesitated before he touched him, his hand shaking and his eyes welling up unbidden because-- because-- he couldn’t accept it. Arthur hadn’t made a noise or a movement when he first crested the cliff, and his heart had gone cold, afraid that he’d found a dead body. 

Now, with Arthur coughing and hacking but each breath weaker and weaker, threatening to be his last, Charles was afraid to touch him. They’d become beings of blood and death, Arthur and him. All the survivors of the gang were nothing more than apparitions of violence and death and the stench of rot. He was afraid to touch him, afraid to solidify the fate that Arthur’s body so desperately wanted for him. 

“ _ Arthur _ ,” He murmured, and with the name spoken into the air, carried on the wind and down the mountain, Charles felt like there was still some life left in him, left in him to give. He pressed a hand to his shoulder and Arthur didn’t move, just wheezed a little deeper. His eyes were closed. 

Arthur was a hollowed out husk of the man he was, and that wasn’t even getting to how the sickness had consumed him, wasted him away to a skeleton. It would be so easy to let nature take its course, to wipe his hands of the whole ordeal and declare that Arthur Morgan died a martyr, died to save them, died to make their lives better. Arthur Morgan had to die to let the century move on. 

But he wasn’t Dutch van der Linde.

Charles looked down at the frail, wasted body of Arthur and felt his chest warming, melting and then solidifying into iron. A conviction that felt electric through his limbs as he thought,  _ I will not dig a grave today _ . 

The mountain was quiet. No birds or the prancing of any hoofed mammals, nothing but the wheezing, dying out breaths of a man who gave his all and the boot-steps of a man trying to save him. 

Charles pressed into Arthur’s shoulder, and began moving downwards, over his chest, trying to feel for any breaks or worrying wounds that would make riding on the back of a horse an impossible task. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to for a few days regardless, not certain that the sickness in his lungs would let him breathe. 

He glanced around at the ridge and nodded to himself. Staying here would be dangerous, but Charles was more than capable of defending them. If they moved now, Arthur would be dead within the hour. 

The cliff had an outcropping of stone above it, something that could make a shallow, protected, warm camp. At least for a few days. At least so long that Charles could nurse the wounds on Arthur’s body and ease his lungs into breathing again. 

Not many people survived the sickness, but he knew it was possible. Had asked in Saint Dennis once, when he came across a doctor, who rubbed his hand down his face and tried to pretend that Charles couldn’t smell the gin wafting off him as he mumbled something about a “small survival rate.” Charles hadn’t pressed him, hadn’t had the time, and he honestly didn’t want to hold out hope. 

In their line of work, it was best not to get attached.

He supposed he had failed, he mused, as he unloaded Taima and let her roam around the grassy area of the cliff. It wasn't a failure he much minded, though.

Charles went back to Arthur’s body, touching his shoulder once more. The breathing was evening out, but still there. He couldn’t lose hope, but neither could he have an abundance for it. He squeezed his shoulder like Arthur did all those nights ago in Shady Belle, and said, “Arthur. Arthur try and hang in there. Please.” 

He pulled a water skin from his side and got it ready, squeezing Arthur’s shoulder a little harder. “Don’t give in. I’m here to take care of you, now.” 

He didn’t know all that happened on the mountain, didn’t really care yet. He’d leave the white-hot rage and revenge for another day, a day when it might be worth it, might help, might let Arthur live another day. For now, he was content to let Micah and Dutch weasel their way out of town, out of sight, so long as they left good and well alone. 

If they came back, well. Charles wasn’t so opposed to saving Arthur again, this time with guns. 

Arthur’s breath quickened at the squeeze, and his hands clenched in the dirt. A whispy groan left his lungs and Charles, despite himself, held his breath as though it would will air into Arthur’s lungs. His eyes opened slowly, blinking in confusion, in pain, in despair, and there was a moment where Charles expected him to give in again, to give in to the pain and anguish rolling around like a thunderstorm in that cacophonous mind, to expire here because it was the easy thing to do. 

“ _ Arthur _ ,” He murmured, once more, because he couldn’t help but say his name, to acknowledge his presence, to  _ pray _ . 

  
Charles watched him pull in another deep breath and slowly try to turn his head, hazy eyes landing on him as his failing, rotting lungs wheezed out, “... _ Charles?”  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, you can find me on [Tumblr](https://sekwoja.tumblr.com/) and on [Twitter.](https://twitter.com/kristolev) I'm pretty active on both of those and I'd love to talk to y'all!
> 
> Hope you like where this is going... This is a longer chapter than the last and HOPEFULLY they'll maintain a pretty decent length. Who knows. I'm not too picky with standardizing chapter lengths. Anyways! Love and peace!


	3. loyalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a good hand, and then a horrible one

The first time Arthur had truly understood why Dutch brought Charles on board was during the chaos of Blackwater.

It wasn’t that Charles hadn’t been useful before the calamity-- he had been-- but more that Arthur wasn’t in any position to be vetting and paying attention to Dutch’s new recruits. Just had to trust Dutch. He had his own duties, besides. Of them all tthe newbies, though, he’d liked Charles the most (but then again, most anyone was better than Bell, a man Arthur did his best to avoid whenever possible). A quiet man, with a ferociously stoic ability to do what needed to be done, while still keeping his wits about him when the others said something _dumber_ ’ _n_ all hell. It was more than necessary, considering Arthur’s bottom line was nothing more than _won’t kill us in our sleep_ _or steal our money_. Asking for much more would be pushing his luck.

Luck weren’t something Arthur liked to gamble too much, and he was already putting far too many cards on the table with the hopes that Blackwater could turn out to be something good for them all. He needed it too; he was getting far, far too tired, and even Dutch’s charisma was waning on him. Let alone Hosea’s daily waning health. A risky hand might be what they all needed to make it out of this life and make a proper family.

For what it was worth, Arthur liked Blackwater. Whole lotta less killing than their other jobs, and the town kept them all busy enough that he wasn’t playing errand boy for the likes of Strauss or Pearson. He felt cleaner, both mentally and physically (Hosea had told him that looking and smelling like a country bumpkin might fly anywhere else, but if they were to be Proper Gentlemen, they had to be  _ bathed _ ), and besides, not being seen as some monster under the beds of unsuspected citizens felt nice. 

He almost felt normal. 

The air felt clean and the buildings, foreign as they were to Arthur even after all these years of bouncing town to town, started to look more like beacons of heaven, rather than oppressive figures watching over him in the evening sun. 

Dutch was in high spirits and the new recruits were doing their jobs and they were gonna be  _ clean _ , and start a normal family and Arthur was thinking of the misguided and loveless affair of Mary Linton and feeling fond, and--

And then the apocalypse threw its mighty weathered spear down upon the Van der Linde gang, and once again, Arthur had to become a monster.

Even the nicest silks and satins become nothing more than rags when they’re soaked in blood and preventing access to bullet wounds, and Arthur knew no fancying him up, regardless of what Hosea wanted for his curious child, would change his nature. 

Maybe that’s what John Milton meant for Lucifer. A gunslinger in a time before guns, and a time before goddamn Pinkertons.

In the onslaught of lawmakers and Pinkertons and bullet fire and actual fire, Arthur didn’t have too much time to be paying attention to anyone but the most important; get Dutch out, get Hosea out, get the girls, get the money. Anything else was second, anything else was a luxury he couldn’t afford. He had to trust the men could get their way out, and well, in his line of work, Dutch could always find more hands. Ain’t got enough chips on the table to deal another hand, gotta deal with the ones he got. 

Even so--

He felt a stab in his heart when he saw Davey get shot. Sean going down stabbed him through the gut. Losing wind of John, fearing for the others, it cut him, deep and deeper and deeper till he felt it couldn’t go much deeper. Not even bone marrow could reach this deep.  And then-- 

Dutch was proud upon the Count, and Arthur could pretend the fear in his eyes was gone. Uncle was gibbering in the back, but he was  _ alive _ , alive and speaking to the girls and the girls were  _ alive _ , and Abigail was keeping the boy safe, and Miss Grimshaw was keeping the girls safe, and Javier and Bill were laughing like banshees with each adrenaline-bursting shot of a gun and--

Charles’ hair was long  and dark in the snowy landscape and his expression was grim. And his shoulders were straight and the grip on his gun was sure and loyal and he could have turned tail and ran, could have gotten away from what was clearly a deal gone south, a gang so fucked they might as well be with the Devil already, coulda gotten the  _ hell  _ outta dodge, and yet. And yet. And yet--

He was shooting with the rest of them, with a hand so burnt from shrapnel or fire or what-the-fuck-ever-happened-at-the-ferry, and for a moment, Charles Smith, a man Arthur had scarcely spoken to more than thrice became a man on his list of Those to Protect.

Not that Charles Smith needed protecting.

Bell rode close to Dutch, and Arthur wanted just about to shut him up with the hilt of his gun, but he didn’t, and Charles was  _ quiet _ and helpful and hurt and bleeding, and still so  _ loyal _ , loyal to a cause he just joined.

Blackwater was a botched job from the get-go, and there was no clearer omen than the blizzard that started its way up as they tried to escape their forlorn fates. The thick snow muffled the sounds of those around him, and before Arthur could even get a gauge of who and what happened, who survived, who didn’t, who was  _ here _ and who was lost for the dead, Dutch was screaming at him to go on ahead, go scout up North and don’t let no Pinkertons follow you, and if it weren’t for the fact that he’s heard this speal a dozen times, each time more harried, more strung out, he wouldn’t have understood Dutch’s shrill commands over the wind and snow and the occasional gunfire that was still heard from the hills.

He should have, in hindsight, started thinking well and hard right then, as the snow pounded down on his hat and the cold bit into his exposed flesh like furious memories returning with their vengeance. Been thinking hard about Dutch and about these recruits and about the family and about how peaceful a family of criminals on the run could ever be. How likely their chances were.

How realistic was it, that they’d have a ranch and some cattle and some honest living? 

The thought, even then, would have made Arthur laugh, and in the end, he didn’t think about it at all, and he kept out a hope in his soul because really, he loved Dutch and he believed his talk, and he loved his family more than anything the society they tried so hard to merge into could ever be.

So he headed North and he focused on finding shelter for his family, and he hoped, hoped beyond hope, that everyone made it out of Dutch’s bad decisions alive. 

The wind howled as though to mock him on the way to Colter. 

 

\--

 

Charles was  _ here _ , which meant he was in danger. 

The cold ground was digging into his spine, and his chest felt like God himself had pressed a mighty fist to it, determined to keep Arthur prone, determined to ensure his fate came to fruition. Still, he tried to sit up, the edges of his visions going dark with millions of stars pressing cosmic fingers against his skull. 

“Sit still! Arthur-- Stop moving!” Charles voice almost cracked as he spoke, and though Arthur’s vision was blurry and weak and he could barely focus on anything, he could tell Charles’ face was wet. He wouldn’t say nothin’ about it.

Charles’ protests, however, Arthur ignored, and kept trying to sit up, wheezing and wheezing until he could muster enough breath to say, “ _ D…. Dutch!”  _ If Charles was here then Dutch could too, and Arthur…. Arthur just didn’t think the man would hesitate to hurt Charles anymore. 

He felt on the edge of passing out again, the memories pushed through his skull like spring grass, mingling and colliding and maybe Micah was here, maybe Charles was, maybe Lenny was here or Miss Grimshaw or John or Hosea--  _ oh, Hosea _ ,  _ the best of us _ \-- or maybe it was Dutch standing in the rocky enclave, just waiting to hurt Arthur again, like the panther he was, waiting to hurt and take and destroy--

Arthur coughed, his chest filling up like a liquid balloon, and he once again felt Charles pressing on him, touching him, and each worried press of a palm or a finger felt like a lifeline, keeping him secure and present. It hurt, hurt like a mother fucker, but sometimes, Arthur had learned, pain is what makes you know something is real.

“You’re safe now. Stop moving, Arthur.” The calmness of Charles’ voice, always so damn calm, made Arthur still for a moment, his bleary eyes roaming wildly around his field of vision. If Charles was  _ sure,  _ was  _ positive _ , well-- it couldn’t all be too bad. “I’ll get you healed, just stop moving and stop being so stubborn.” 

As always, the finality in Charles’ voice made all thoughts of Dutch and Micah and the others, the others,  _ oh, the others _ , drift to the back of his mind, and he focused on breathing, focused on trying to  _ see  _ Charles through the haze and fog of his mind. He stilled.

He wondered if Charles knew the effect he had on Arthur.

“Okay.” Charles breathed, once Arthur calmed down, his hand pressing into Arthur’s chest like he thought that the moment he relinquished any pressure, Arthur would fade into the dirt. It hurt, but Arthur didn’t mind. Everything hurt these days. “I wanna move you. Think you can stay still?” It was less of a question and more of a condemnation;  _ stay still or I’ll make you stay still _ . One way or another, Charles’ wishes would see the light of day. One way or another, Arthur  _ would _ comply. 

He couldn’t get enough air into his lungs to give a verbal  _ yes _ , so he just flapped one his hands, limp and heavy and bruised and bloody. Even that movement made him feel woozy, and he felt the pressure on his chest from Charles’ hand tighten for a moment. 

“...Don’t move. I got you, Arthur. Just focus on breathing.” 

So Arthur did. After a few moments, he felt Charles’ hands move, and through his clouded vision, he could see dark fabric and feel Charles’ breath as he leaned down to take hold of Arthur. The second he tried to lift Arthur up, the movement nearly made him pass out again, his breathing getting heavier, his wheezing worse, his vision cloudier. But he tried to stay present, present enough not to scream, not to grunt, not to mumble the names of the people in his head who he wished to see, wished to hate, wished he’d never see again. 

Despite his best efforts, though, the second Charles lifted him off the ground and into his arms, his vision went blank and his brain became a mess of static electricity. When he could next focus his eyes through the thunderclouds in his vision, the earth was similar but colder, darker and less foliaged. Stone, rather than the light sprinkling of herbs and flowers. They were under the shallow overhang that Micah tried to kill him at.

Charles set him back down carefully, on a bed of animal pelts he must have been keeping stowed on Taima. The familiar scent of the hides calmed Arthur; this, at least, read like a camp to him, rather than a grave site. And oh, what a camp it was. He wished Javier’s guitar was cutting through the chilly air with each weeping note, but all was silent. Still, the birds sang no notes, as though the mountain were a holy place, a patch of land holding its breath to see what fate would have in store for these two foolish, foolish men.

Charles stepped back and the places where his hands vacated were left cold. Were Arthur in any position to bring enough air into his lungs to protest, he would, but like most times in his life, he was left silent and alone. 

“Just try to rest. I’ll make us a fire. Don’t  _ move _ .” Charles sure seemed concerned that Arthur might try and move; he wondered if Charles didn’t realize how utterly broken his body was. Even Arthur wasn’t sure how broken it was, but he knew,  _ knew _ , he wasn’t going anywhere. Not with this ribs and his lungs and his flesh and his utter, utter hopelessness in the situation. 

The crunch of gravel underfoot revealed that Charles wasn’t too far away, but Arthur didn’t have the energy to look up at him, to watch him. He almost wished Charles wasn’t here, had taken the chance and  _ run _ , run and never looked back, stayed in Wapiti, or gotten the fuck outta dodge. Arthur wouldn’t have blamed him. Truth be told, he wouldn’t have long to blame him, even if he did. He hacked another painful and pitiful cough of blood and phlegm up from his lungs, spitting it to the side best he could. 

He wondered if Charles knew he was tending to a dead man walking. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long time period between updates; I've had a lot of really difficult family emergencies that I've been dealing with the past couple of weeks, as well as some pretty debilitating depression. Writing this helped, though, and I hope it makes your week a little better too!
> 
> I read a headcanon a while back-- or maybe just reading into the story-- that made me realize that Hosea likely has some sort of disease in the game. It reads like cancer to me, a condition that we were really only just starting to understand back in 1899. It makes sense though; Hosea constantly talks about his time coming and how little time he has left in this world, even though he's only like... 50 or 60. Could be nihilistic gunslinger talk, but... It always read a little sadder than that to me. Long tangent for a sentiment that has only a sentence in the chapter itself... Alrighty then, lol. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you like this; it's a bit shorter than I'd like, but... well, Arthur isn't too mentally or physically well to be carrying on conversations. It'll be a bit easier from Charles' POV to carry on a longer chapter. 
> 
> As always, feel free to hit me up on [tumblr](https://sekwoja.tumblr.com) or on [Twitter.](https://twitter.com/kristolev) I'm active on both.


	4. choose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some herbs, some bruises, and eye contact

If it were any other man in this state, Charles might pity him, might give up, might let nature take its due course. Clearly, something wanted Arthur dead. Even as he laid still, surprisingly compliant with Charles’ demands that he  _ stay still _ , the twitches from his clearly-painful breaths kept catching Charles’ attention. The coughing up of blood and phlegm and viscera from his chest was worrying, but-- 

Best not to worry about that now. 

He began to work on getting a fire started. It was no use trying to save Arthur with herbs and food and furs and comfort if he was just going to freeze to death in the middle of the night. Ideally, he needed to get Arthur off the mountain and into a town, but it would have to wait until Arthur wasn’t on death’s doorstep. 

The wood he’d gathered earlier was reedy and thin, and just to get the fire going, he had to add far too much grass and other plants just for tinder. He’d have to go find  _ real _ wood soon. But for now, the small fire was enough, at least enough for him to provide a modicum of warmth for Arthur, and to be able to actually see his wounds in the dim mountain light. 

Charles shoved the matchbook back into his pocket and stepped over to where Arthur lay. 

There was no birdsong on this mountain, unless the wheezing and hacking of a dead man’s cough could be counted as some perverted pastiche of song.

He crouched down in front of Arthur, and Arthur looked at him through teary, red-rimmed eyes. His face was a mess of dried blood and snot and wounds. “What happened?” He knew Arthur couldn’t speak much right now, but it was too much; he felt a white-hot rage fill him up; Arthur Morgan might deserve a few swings in his life, but he did not deserve whatever happened on this mountain. 

Arthur’s breath shuddered as he tried to pull in more air than a normal man would need to speak, his eyes fluttering as he tried to stay conscious. Even beat half to death and covered in his own blood, Charles couldn’t help but see such a minute beauty in his eyelashes. “...Micah.” Arthur wheezed, hate lowering his voice to a near growl that couldn’t have been comfortable.

“Rat.” Charles spit. He wasn’t surprised, but it didn’t give him much comfort to know his guess was right, either. He might not have been in the gang too long, and barely any longer than Micah, but it’d take a fool not to see the splintering and destruction that man caused. He was a catalyst, maybe for something that was a long time coming, sure, but nonetheless, he made the gang’s downfall all the more painful. 

“...With… Dutch.” The pain in his voice was palpable; it was hotter and more painful than any meager fire could ever hope to produce. Charles would have to remember that Arthur didn’t just lose a leader, but a father, too. His own rage at the situation would have to be cautious; he still didn’t know how much of Arthur still loved the man that tried to kill them all. 

“Let them be on their merry way. They chose.” Charles said. He let his knees fall to the ground, and he leaned over Arthur, beginning the process of pulling open his clothes. “I’m gonna see what all needs tending to. Sit still.” 

Arthur coughed in a way that might have been a laugh, and hoarsely said, “Aye… cap’n.” It made a smile flash across Charles’ face. If Arthur was still able to say his atrocious, atrocious attempts at jokes and amusement, then hope couldn’t be entirely lost, could it? 

Under the jacket and vest and undershirt, Arthur was a mess of bruises. Yellow and purple and green, a kaleidoscope so vivid it made Charles suck in a breath in sympathy. A coalescence of bruises hinted at a broken rib, and Charles could only be grateful that shards of bone didn’t puncture Arthur’s lungs. There wasn’t much he could do about the rib until it started to heal, but knowing it was there changed things. With Arthur’s lungs already so weak, they’d have to be careful when moving him. 

Charles refused to think about it, but deep down, he understood that Arthur, the feared gunslinger who could survive anything, persevere through everything, the pillar of strength… That man  _ was _ dead. He looked down at Arthur’s half-conscious face, and the weariness and redness and wheezing breath told him all he needed to know -- Arthur would never ride as an outlaw again. 

Maybe it was a good thing.  A clean break, and then Arthur could be on his way and he’d thank Charles and move on and-- 

And Charles would be left alone. 

It was probably natural. 

One of the small sticks cracked as it fell and it made him jump out of his thoughts. He didn’t realize he had just been staring at Arthur’s chest, his breathing getting heavier as his thoughts had plummeted downwards. At least Arthur was too out of it to notice.

He began to apply salves and herbs to some of the bruising, especially those that had cut into Arthur’s skin. The last thing they needed was for Arthur to stay alive, just to die from infection three days from now. Micah must have fought dirty; he’d seen Arthur in plenty of fights, and none had left him this battered and bruised. 

Not for the first time, Charles wished Micah was here to face the consequences of his actions. He wondered if the little rat would be so high and mighty facing  _ his _ fists. Truthfully, Charles wondered if he’d even give Micah a chance to fight back before putting a bullet in his brain for all the trouble he’s caused.

Arthur hissed in pain a few times while Charles applied the salves, wincing as the herbs began their process of sterilizing him. Charles wished he had some morphine to dull the pain for him; each wince made Charles almost wince, but he held back. He had to stay strong, had to pretend all was well, had to make sure Arthur stayed calm. 

After a particularly brutal bout of coughing that made Charles have to sit back and pause in his work, he commented idly, “Suppose your days of smoking are over, Arthur.” Arthur’s look of dramatized utter anguish made Charles snort out a short laugh. 

“Least lemme have some whiskey, you gonna be operatin’ on me like this, doc.” Arthur said. His voice was weak, but he seemed to be trying his hand at speaking in ways that wouldn’t activate the cough. Charles wished he’d stay quiet, but-- if Arthur needed to jabber to stay calm, then so be it. 

“Hm. Fine.” He went to his supply satchel and pulled out a bottle of whiskey, and crouched in front of him. “I’ll lift your head and you can drink.” He didn’t want Arthur moving. He wrapped his free hand around the back of Arthur’s head, lifting him up, blinking at the feeling of his hair. It was getting long, and though it was matted with blood and dirt and sweat, there was still a softness to it that Charles would have to think about later. He lifted the bottle to Arthur’s lips and said, “Drink.” 

And Arthur did, like it was a cup of salvation and Charles were his priest. 

He wondered how much pain, even now, Arthur was hiding.

Arthur sighed after he drank, his face contorting from the whiskey. It astounded Charles, sometimes, that he could see Arthur as the beautiful man he was, even when he looked like death itself was around the corner. 

“We’re gonna fix you up, and we’ll find ourselves a small little town, and we’ll find you a  _ doctor _ , and you’ll live.” Charles said quietly, and it was then that Arthur looked at him, met his eyes, met his look, and Charles could see all the pain in the world living inside of Arthur Morgan’s head. 

When Charles first met Arthur, he just assumed the man didn’t care for him. Wasn’t a strange occurrence; a lot of folks were hostile to a man like him, and he’d learned long ago that starting fights over every racist bastard just wasn’t worth it (he’d always applauded Javier, whenever the man went into it with Bill, but Bill should have known better, regardless). As long as Morgan kept his respect in check and accepted his role in the gang, that was enough for Charles. 

Arthur never did look him in the eyes. It took him almost a month of observing, watching everyone in the camp, to realize Arthur never did much meet  _ anyone’s _ look. It just wasn’t his style. For such an intimidating, brute of a man, there was a shyness that permeated the way he carried himself; Arthur wasn’t being hostile to Charles in his brusqueness, he just wasn’t a people person. 

It didn’t really sink in until Colter and the hunting mission. Arthur just didn’t look people in the eyes. Maybe it was easier. Maybe it was just who he was. 

But now, now he looked at Charles, and listened to his premonition, and his eyes shone with the dull fire and Charles knew that Arthur was gifting him something. Giving him a respect afforded to very little people.

“You don’ have to…” Arthur said, and were his face not already a mess of bruises and blood and red splotches from his sickness, Charles would wonder if he was coloring. 

“I know. But I’m going to anyways.” Charles said. 

“...It ain’t worth it. Jus’ gonna die, anyhow.” He coughed deep in his lungs, as though to illustrate his point. “Can’t heal from this.” His voice was decisive; any other man would have to take that for an answer, but Charles Smith was no other man.

Charles shook his head. “I hear of people surviving all the time. It’s hard. And you’re sick. But I’ll make it so.”

“Stubborn bastard. Jus’ gonna have to bury me.” 

He shook his head again, and slowly lowered Arthur’s head back against the pelts. The deer skin was soft, but it was no bed; he wanted to get Arthur stable as soon as possible. “You’ll survive. And we’ll make it through this.” 

“Yeah. Sure.” Arthur paused to breathe for a while; Charles moved to start making medicine for his lungs, letting Arthur take his time. After a while, he said, “Not… Even if I survive. You-- You know this. I’ll be useless.” 

“Never useless, Arthur.” 

Arthur just grunted under his breath, turning his gaze entirely away from Charles. Charles wasn’t necessarily an expert in people, but-- somehow, over the past year or so, he’d learned that Arthur was very,  _ very _ easy to read. He wasn’t sure if anyone else in the camp would have agreed-- in fact, by all accounts, Arthur was a strange enigma, either over or underestimated at ever turn, turned either into a brute or a pansy depending on the person. To Charles, though, his grunts and non-verbal communications were as clear as the morning sun, obvious tells of a man who grew up having to sacrifice certain communication to keep the peace. 

Not for the first time, he cursed Dutch and all he did to this poor man. 

“We both know you wanted out of the life. Now’s our-- your-- chance.” He had to stop inserting himself into Arthur’s plans. For all he knew, once Arthur was stable and could scrounge enough money to get a nurse or a doctor in some city and  _ retire _ , Charles would be out on his ass and he’d have to find somewhere else to go. Maybe wander, maybe travel up to Canada to find something, anything, that America couldn’t and wouldn’t offer him. 

Arthur flicked his gaze back to Charles again, and then down at the grinding herbs and sighed. “Never thought I’d be alone when it happened.” 

Charles fielded him a side-long glance. “You’re not alone, Arthur.” 

“You shouldn’t have’ta tend to me like I’m some invalid!” The rise in his voice caused another coughing attack and Charles leaned forward to grab his shoulder, to stabilize him so he didn’t move too much. Arthur looked like he wanted to push Charles off, but he didn’t, and in Charles’ eyes, that counted as a win. 

“...You shouldn’t be beholden to me, Charles,” he said quietly.

Charles huffed and shook his head, rolling his eyes as he did so. “You’re a fool, Arthur. I went  _ looking _ for you. I’m not beholden to no one. I chose to help. I want to help.” He snorted as he looked down at this man, dying as they spoke, trying to wriggle out of being told he needed help. Trying to pretend he didn’t  _ deserve _ help. “After doing-- you--” He paused, and shook his head again. “You deserve so much more than abandonment, Arthur.” 

Arthur said nothing, but Charles could see his throat move as he swallowed thickly. He closed his eyes, and Charles pretended Arthur wasn’t choking back unbidden tears. 

Charles stopped grinding the herbs, putting the bowl down on the stony earth and placing his hand right over Arthur’s bare chest. Arthur looked at him in surprise, hope, fear-- a multitude of emotions that only a man who’s been in as much pain as Mr. Morgan could possibly hope to possess all at once. It broke Charles’ heart that this man could feel so much and never have it acknowledged.

“I’m here to stay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Another chapter. Was in the writing mood today and was able to Crank This Bad Boy Out during the afternoon! 
> 
> I headcanon Arthur as autistic, mostly because he, in game, does a lot of things that I'm familiar with. The eye contact thing, his stimming, the way he has difficulty sometimes with people... I can relate a lot, lol, so I tend to write him as having something similar. I just love him so much ;; 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter. They're actually talking, yay!
> 
> As usual, tumblr and twitter are open and willing~


	5. premonitions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dreams and coffee and fire

Arthur wondered, sometimes, if perhaps he was meant to be alive at a different point in time. He felt himself at a crossroads for much of his life, one foot reaching far, far back across eons of history, planted firmly in the soil like he was a proverbial mother nature’s son, and another treading upon newfound territory, something untold and futuristic. The times either felt too advanced, or too primitive and neither ever settled in his mind’s eye. 

A knot in his stomach formed when he was young, and the clamoring ball of snakes never ceased to relax.

(Dutch used to say he thought too much, and sure, it was usually to a young Arthur in the grips of anxiety, trying to calm him down and make him focus on  _ action _ rather than  _ thought _ , a hand wrapped around the pistol in Arthur’s hand, urging him to just  _ do _ , to  _ act _ , but--)

He had a point. 

It took Arthur just damn too long to think something through, scared he’ll miss  _ something _ , scared he’ll fuck something up by not payin’ close enough attention. 

(Hosea would laugh at Dutch and say, no, the problem ain’t the thinking, it’s the resolve, and he’d pull Dutch’s hands away from Arthur’s grip, and say quietly to Arthur,  _ now c’mon boy, just take a breath and do what’s natural _ , and Arthur would hit the makeshift bullseye on the tree fifty yards away, every time, every time, but--)

Maybe if he hadn’t spent so much time  _ thinkin’ _ , near the end, he could have saved Lenny. Or Sean. Or Davey or Mac or Miss Grimshaw or Miss O’Shea, or-- 

(Truth be told, his shots were always clean and dangerous whenever Dutch was giving orders, too, and Arthur knew Hosea and Dutch needed his steady hand when push came to shove. And when push came to shove, Arthur was always so, so good at turning off his brain and just  _ doing _ . It was one or the other. All thought, or all brute.)

Maybe he could have saved Dutch.

His dreams are a barbed wire mess of red and grey and black and yellow, death and death and death and death, and always, to the beat of his heart, coughing. Nothing but coughing and hacking and sometimes, in his dream, the cough became blood became the bullet what pierced through the skulls of his loved ones.

In the dream, the hand guiding his child-grip turned inwards, pointing the gun at Arthur, and he was forced to watch the man in front of him turn bitter and paranoid, the love leaking from his eyes like gun grease. Hosea withered before his eyes, coughing and coughing and coughing until he was nothing more than a puddle on the ground, in a meadow of blood and bodies. 

Arthur didn’t often sleep through the night uninterrupted.

The clanking of a coffee pot is what woke him, sucking in a breath as deep as he could manage and exhaling with a pitiful cough. He was sweat-slick and cold, a shiver running down his spine as he fully became aware of his surroundings.

The shale-grey walls were illuminated by a fire; it was bigger than he remembered it being, the crude nature of twigs and smoke from grass replaced with actual thick sticks hewn from white birch trees. Arthur wondered how long he had slept, for Charles to have time to make their camp into something more comfortable. 

It was still makeshift and ready to be torn down in an instant, and Arthur wondered what, exactly, it was that Charles was waiting for. What magical turn of health he expected Arthur to run into. Did he think Arthur would recover?

He took in another slow breath, and tried to sit up. The clanking of the coffee pot increased, and through pained eyes, Arthur could see that Charles had hastily put it down, trying to clamber over to Arthur as quick as possible. 

“Don’t sit up.” He said, his hand outstretched to press down on Arthur’s chest. Arthur groaned but did what he was told. He didn’t know why he always listened to Charles, so quickly. It just felt right. Charles couldn’t be wrong. 

“Ain’t gonna… drink coffee laying down,” He grunted. He’d been trying to talk slower, quieter, and while it was less painful, less embarrassing and a whole lot less full of phlegmy coughs, it also made him sound like the nitwit that folks who saw his bulk first and his brain last thought him as.

Charles huffed, and pressed further on his chest when Arthur tried to sit up again. He looked right about ready to start protesting some more, but Arthur stuck him with a look he hoped conveyed  _ I will sit up whether it’ll break another rib or not _ , and he pulled back, frowning. “At least let me help you to the wall.”

He made a whole show of slowly moving all the pelts closer to the cave wall, and Arthur rolled his eyes at the dramatics. Charles Smith might compromise on Arthur’s health, but he sure didn’t like it. And when the time came for Arthur to be moved, he didn’t let Arthur move a muscle, just manhandled him and propped him up as gently as he could against the rough stone. 

Any other man tried to do that, he’d get a punch for the efforts. But Arthur didn’t mind when Charles did these things, these small acts. He supposed, and the thought terrified him, that Charles might actually like him.

He pressed a hand to his rib cage when Charles stepped back, taking a few moments just to breathe and get his bearings. He might have said he could do it himself, could sit up, but truth be told, Charles was right. He was hurt and he was dying and he really  _ shouldn’t _ be moving. 

“...All that drama, just for a goddamn cup of coffee. Bet it ain’t even that good.” He grumbled. Arthur almost gave up on the sentence halfway through when a coughing attack overtook him, but he persevered through, just to prove to Charles that he could still sass a mile a minute.

“I mean, I can always drink it myself.” Charles said. He went back to the kettle and poured a hearty amount into a tin cup. Took a drink that musta been half the damn cup, then handed it off to Arthur. “Drink slow. We still don’t know how that rib broke. I assume it’s fine since you haven’t died from internal bleeding yet, but--” He shrugged.

Arthur waved him off and brought the cup to his lips, savoring the smell of the coffee. Charles always made it strong, stronger than most men like it, and Arthur could appreciate it. Not a good cup of coffee unless it makes you wanna choke a bit.

It soothed his throat going down; he hadn’t realized how hoarse his voice was, how raw his throat was, past the pain in his chest. He supposed it made sense, all the yelling he’d done in the past couple of days. All the screaming, all the yelling, and still no one would  _ listen _ . 

He looked out over the crest of the cliff. The sun was red as it slowly faded into its nightly slumber, casting the whole mountain in an eerie light. The birdsong was finally back, trickling down the cliff into the forest below. It felt as though as the sun turned its gaze away from the landscape, she could finally breathe again, a sigh overtaking the whole of mother earth. 

Arthur took another sip of coffee, and ground out, “When we leavin’ this place?”

Charles shrugged. “Whenever you’re fit for travel, I suppose. You’re doing better than you were. Sleep helped, I think.” 

Arthur watched Charles move around the fire, stoking the embers with a stick while he was crouched in the dirt. He didn’t get why Charles was doing this, staying, but he knew better than to keep asking it; if Charles said he was here to stay, here to help, then that was what Charles was going to do. No arguing against it. Arthur just hadn’t realized he still had a little cosmic luck on his side. 

“...The others, they got out all right?” 

Charles looked up at him momentarily, and then back down to the flames. The light bounced off his face, his cheeks glowing. Arthur never noticed the long, jagged scar shooting across his scalp, noticeable now that he’d shaved the sides of his head. Arthur brushed his finger across the scar on his lip. 

“Dunno. Didn’t really have the time to follow through. Had to find you,” Charles said.

Arthur rubbed at his ribs again, and nodded, looking out over the cliff. “Best to give ‘em space, anyhow. Not sure they wanna see my face anytime soon.”

“You’re so self-critical. Always are. As though you weren’t the one that got them out. Bet you John and Abigail and Jack are safer than they’ve been in years. Same with the girls. You gave them all a hope that was  _ real _ , not just Dutch’s lies.” 

“Yeah. An out from the likes of me.” He coughed, and as he brought the cup to his lips for another drink, his hands shook slightly, a tremor that almost caused him to spill his coffee. It’d been happening whenever he got tired for a while, making his aim weaker, making his scared to his deep down core. What good was he if he couldn’t even shoot a gun? 

He took a drink to drown the thought out.

_ I suppose I have Charles to shoot for me, now. _

“We’ll find them when you’re more stable, if you want.” Charles looked out towards the fading sun, and nodded. “We’ll leave at first dawn, provided you can handle the journey.”

“I can  _ handle _ it, just gimme a breakfast of whiskey soon as we wake.” Arthur snorted. 

“Last thing we need is for you to be drunker than a skunk while you need medical attention.” Charles said. His voice was serious but his expression was light, a smile dancing across his lips with the same sort of mirth as the flames below him. Arthur wished his fingers were stable enough to draw, to etch out the scene before him. 

Charles Smith had captivated him for months, now.

The sky above began to show hints of constellations, half-pictures of guesses and premonitions that would only reveal their messages the darker it got. Arthur nodded. “Morning it is.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much to say about this one except HEY next time they'll finally leave the cliff! Yay! I no longer will have to describe the same scene over and over!
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy, as usual. 
> 
> Twitter (kristolev) and Tumblr (sekwoja) are always open.
> 
> Ciao~


End file.
